


The Ocean Carried Me

by consultingcenturion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hope, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Slash, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingcenturion/pseuds/consultingcenturion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The water was up to his chin, tickling the tips of his ears, and in one motion, he sunk down beneath the water. It filled his ears, surrounded him, he felt it rushing at his nose, seeping into his mouth, and he held his breath."</p><p>Post S2.E3, pre-return John dealing with Sherlock's absence, and the hope that comes with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ocean Carried Me

**Never Let Me Go by Florence and the Machine**

The Ocean Carried Me

John found himself kneeling in front of the bathtub, blankly turning the water on and waiting for it to heat before plugging the drain. He wasn't sure how he had gotten there. He had been lounging in the sitting room, ignoring the cup of tea that he had poured, staring out at the rain. It was Sherlock's birthday, they had never bothered much with 'frivolous celebrations set by society' as Sherlock put it, but John would purchase a small cake, chocolate on chocolate—the only way Sherlock would eat it—and he managed to get him  _some_ kind of gift, whether it was a new set of lenses for his microscope or new test tubes and beakers, or a large informative textbook filled with facts about bees. He felt extremely heavy, sitting there, in his chair, staring at Sherlock's empty one. He had wandered into the bathroom, when his knees hit the cold tile floor he was drawn from his thoughts, realizing what he was doing.

He lowered himself into the water, having stripped himself of his clothes, he enjoyed the weightless feeling the water gave, he didn't have to support himself up, just sinking deeper into the water. It was a chilly London day, but the weather had nothing to do with the ice that was settled deep into John's bones. He felt the water thawing them a little, the heat of the bath slowing his heart down, relaxing his sore joints. He slid deeper, the water to his shoulders. A small idea, flitting through his mind. He slid lower.

The water was up to his chin, tickling the tips of his ears, and in one motion, he sunk down beneath the water. It filled his ears, surrounded him, he felt it rushing at his nose, seeping into his mouth, and he held his breath. The water blanketed him, held him, eased the pain in his shoulder and knee. It dulled the outside world, caught his tears, shielded him. From the beneath the water the outside world was out of focus, just as he liked it. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, letting the water fill up, and he imagined what it would be like to die underwater. He imagined what it would be like to let go, to let the water smother him completely. The pain of drowning was not something he was unaware of, the thick and heavy horror of your lungs filling up with water, your brain screaming from the depravity of oxygen. Yet, would those few moments of pain match the  _years_ of misery and loneliness that he had thus endured? So many times he came close to giving up, to just letting it all go, because these memories that he was burdened to carry with him were growing too heavy. The fact that he could not tell anyone, not even his damned therapist, of what he carried with him— _"It's been two years, John, you need to move on."—_ was almost too much for the good doctor. One can only pretend to be fine for so long, especially when you were most certainly  _not fine._

 _Maybe Sherlock made it to heaven_ , John wonders.  _For a man, as strange and albeit slightly twisted as he was, what he did...sacrificing himself for...whatever he did, I know he wasn't a fake, he_ must _have had_ some  _reason, a good reason, that he killed himself. He helped people, he_ cared,  _I know he did._

John begins to wonder if he would make it to heaven. He hadn't been strictly religious, and lets face it he swore like a sailor, drank too much, and he's  _killed_ people for goodness' sake. But he was a doctor, he was a healer by nature, he saved  _Sherlock_ several times, he fought for Queen and Country, he was a good man. Was there absolution somewhere within that? He wasn't even sure that there  _was_ a heaven, though he was pretty sure there was, I mean,  _this_...this life, this world, these meager years upon this failing little planet can't be all there is...right? He was sure that if there was a heaven, Sherlock undoubtedly was up there, watching down, cataloging all the things that he could, picking apart each infinitesimal piece of information.

 _Probably annoying the bloody fuck out of the angels,_ John thought affectionately to himself.  _I'd like to be there, too. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad._

He could feel his air running out, having been under the water a minute or two longer than would be wise. His limbs were dulling, his will was fading, and he just couldn't get the image of a perfectly whole and new Sherlock, one without blood running from his face and glassy, dead eyes, a broken and grotesque disfigurement of the Great Man, deducing the lives and deaths of the other inhabitants, etherial and not, asking questions, discovering answers, being _Sherlock._

And John wanted.

Black spots began to bleed into his vision beneath the water, his chest tightened, and he felt his muscles start to fight to arch upward. Any time now his breath would end, he'd inhale a deep lungful of water and it would begin, and it would end.

He heard a whisper in the back of his head  _What are you doing, John? Don't give up, not now. This isn't what Sherlock would want. He wouldn't want you to give up your life, when he's already done that, he didn't save you all those times, he didn't tell you goodbye so that you could go and waste it all away in a moment of weakness. Someone has to tell his story, your story. What happened to believing that he wasn't dead? That hope is still there, I know you can feel it._

And it was true. John did still hope. It was buried deep in the farthest sections of his mind, boxed up and caged tightly. His hope was a wild beast, one who had burned his way through John, eating him alive, and running fire through his heart. One year passed, and then another, and John reigned the beast in, because what's worse than hope, is the disappointment that follows. It's shattering, and it cracked John into pieces.

 _You love him all the same. Keep waiting, John. Keep saving lives, keep healing, keep being_ you _. That's what he would have wanted. Believe in Sherlock Holmes._

He feels thin hands on his face, tugging him up, his name being called, a spark of recognition flares in his mind. Panic rose up in his chest as he felt the last of the air dissipate and his brain intervened, systems kicking in to override his conscious efforts to not inhale. He forced himself up, face breaking the water as he opened his lungs wide and inhaled, deep and delicious pulls of air; he sat clutching the sides of the tub, gasping, chest heaving, his brain ignited crisp and clear, rivulets of water dripping from his hair, his eye lashes, the tip of his nose. He looked around frantically, for the owner of those hands, of that voice, he feels the hope that has been unleashed bubble up inside of him and spill out of every pore, threatening to unhinge him, but no one was there.

He dared to speak, but it was just a whisper. Just a two tiny syllables he hadn't uttered in months.

" _Sherlock...?"_

Silence.

And he was alone.

But he was  _alive._

**Author's Note:**

> Ow. That hurt to write. I just heard the song while my music was on shuffle and then BAM! The Johnlock feels just hit me.


End file.
